


On Leavening

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baking, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes baking, Bucky Makes Steve Welcome-Home Baked Goods in Wakanda, Fluff, Fondant, In Which Everyone Grows Up and Apologizes and So Things are Happy, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Sharing Food is Sharing Love, Steve Makes Bucky 'I Was Terrified When You Were Away Here Are My Stress Creations' in New York, Steve Rogers: Stress Pastry Artist, Stress Baking, Supersoldiers in Love, Supportive Boys Being Supportive of One Another's Trauma and Recovery, The Tiniest Bit of Angst (That Really Just Underscores the Boundlessness of the Fluff), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: Baking is a therapeutic hobby for Bucky, and he bakes for Steve to welcome him home when he's been away.Baking is a stress-response for Steve, and he bakes for Bucky to work through how goddamn terrified he gets when Bucky’s away on missions. Which means he bakes maybe a lot in the process of trying to cope—in ahere are some impeccably-decorated shortbreads, thankgodyou're alivesort of way.Or: the story of two supersoldiers who love each other a whole hell of a lot, and use baking to express it, grow in it, work through the hard times, and celebrate the joy of it all in full measure.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 45
Kudos: 298





	On Leavening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ransomdrysdale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ransomdrysdale/gifts).



> Yes, the title is a pun. You're lucky I didn't go with the OTHER pun that was a possibility.
> 
> Belated, for [jenofthemoon](https://twitter.com/jenofthemoon/): I found this as written but in the 'unsure if this is utter garbage' folder of my gdocs. I cannot write for my LIFE right now because fucking COVID-19, but Jen responded to my offer of a fic-me-up ages ago, and requested baking as the theme, and this resulted. It is not proofread and may not be very good even by regular standards, because I do not have the energy/health/wherewithal to try and improve it right now, but it's predominantly fluffy, and fluff seems to be something we could all use a little more of at the moment. I mean, always, but definitely just now. Forgive its mediocrity in exchange?
> 
> (And, once more to Jen: there was another fic that came of your request; I'm not sure it's as close to done as THIS was (haven't stumbled across it YET in the over-stuffed labyrinth of the docs-folder), but it has a particular framing device that I'd want to run by you to make sure you're comfortable with first, as...you know. It's...your fic-me-up? But if you're interested in more babble—and don't feel obligated to be—I'm the same username on Twitter, where you can find me if you decide you want to.)

It’s not even a question.

For Steve, it’s not even a goddamn _question_ , and it’s not for Bucky either.

Problem being that the answers they settle on _without_ the question are…

Not quite the same.

“Steve, they need you.”

“They’re grown-ass adults and they can use a cell phone.”

“ _Steve_.”

“We’re fugitives,” and shit, but Bucky frowns at that, always does at that word no matter how many times Steve tries to convince him Steve would gladly be much _worse_ than a fugitive if it meant Bucky was here, that _they_ were _here_ ; but the frowns aren’t as deep, now. And that’s something.

“But it’s not like they need someone to lead them into battle.”

“That’s not the only reason you need a leader,” Bucky says, measured and knowing and eyes wise in a way that looks only half as hard-won as it was, but is so clear and instead of being world-weary for it all, they see and they take in close enough to embrace, to feel out fully and then respond, then give in kind. 

“And there’s more than one kind of battle, besides.”

That shuts Steve up, just like Bucky knew it would. Which makes Steve all the more _indignant_ for it.

So they reach a compromise. Or else, they reach an equilibrium of sorts. Steve spends every moment he can in Wakanda, and some he can’t, shouldn’t, is needed elsewhere but _can’t leave, not yet_—Steve ensconces himself in the unwavering hospitality extended to him, most likely out of love for Bucky.

Because Bucky’s endeared himself to the people here, royalty and military and common citizen alike because Bucky is not just reclaiming himself and healing, but growing into a man who is all of his good qualities in such quiet, steady depth, supersaturated and filled to bursting in Steve’s soul just to witness it, and sometimes has the opportunity to feel it in his own blood like arms around him in the winter, but not in the dark any longer, no—in the sunlight and warmer; brighter.

Steve spends as many moments, as many _heartbeats_ of his life in Bucky’s presence, at his side, helping where he helps, learning not just how to kid a goat but hell, how to help a _rhinoceros_ give birth, and how to be proud and want to kiss Bucky’s smiling lips when the seeds Steve planted start to sprout—

Steve spends all the moments of his life, now, mired in the truth that being in love with your best friend and holding it close to your chest isn’t something that can fade—at least, not for him, not through time or death or loss, not for a single goddamn reason, not in the face of any power that exists in the universe—and if anything the fact of Bucky here, of Bucky _back_ in a time where Steve _could_ tell him, reciprocated or not and if so, is _felt in return_ , they could love each other without fear. They could love each other, unrelenting, unashamed under the sun without a care for whatever anyone saw or thought, and they breathe _free_ with it and Steve feels like the serum fixed his lungs, sure, but that.

 _That_ , that would be what it meant to take a truly full breath that filled his body, that lifted his soul.

But Steve has spent all the moments of his life in love with Bucky Barnes, and so loving him quietly, and loving him in all the ways not less, just different—just what has _always_ been clear beyond any words and not truly _just_ anything: Steve loves Bucky softly, and hugs him over, and sometimes lets his hand brush Bucky’s as innocently as possible because Steve’s only human.

And when they have to part, when people Steve cares about _do_ need a leader for whatever reason Steve can’t in good conscience avoid, well.

If in those moments when his heart breaks, every time and every which way: Steve holds Bucky close in a hug and he holds on long, and tight, and Bucky always waits, returns it until Steve makes himself pull back and Steve suspects it’s because Bucky knows that Steve needs to mould Bucky to his body, to make sure there’s not a moment they’re separated where Steve forgets anything about Bucky, least of which being the feeling of him breathing— _alive, alive, alive_ —against Steve’s chest.

It’s not worth leaving—never, not close—but it has become a routine. Steve knows it was part of his recovery; remains such, and Steve’s fascinated by the Wakandan approach to all of it, any of it, particularly in contrast to the clinical, horrifying, anxiety-laden experience of SHIELD therapists he was forced to see once he was first out of the ice; the ones he lied to because _Steve_ was lied to first and trust was in short supply and he had half a heart he was realising hatefully that he’d have to learn to live with, and that was fucking _unfair_.

But in Wakanda, it’s a community. It’s children who don’t know exactly what they’re doing or why, save that they’re being open and _filled_ with trust, and love, and care; curiosity and innocence and imagination and humor. It’s retired members of the Wakandan military, from War Dogs to Generals, who know enough to sympathise and support. It’s the citizens and the heartfelt understanding of how to be present and how to provide normalcy, inclusion to a soul that feels alone. It was everything—but it was also the closest thing _to_ a therapist, Abena, that Bucky had, who taught him careful exercises, who talked to him but more often, who _listened_ ; who was patient and helped Steve learn, with Bucky’s permission, how to support Bucky too and in the process learn how to accept some of the healing that bled through what Bucky was learning.

But among all that, one of the things Bucky learned to heal through was cooking.

Or else, more often: _baking_.

And Steve wasn’t sure how it fit into being away from Steve, if it fit into that at all—he couldn’t ask, wouldn’t push—but the fact was that every single time Steve left?

Bucky was waiting with something delicious for Steve to collapse with in his hands and moan for the _taste_ of it: not least the taste of Bucky’s healing, the knowledge that this is what Bucky’s hands do now, what Bucky’s learned and _lets_ himself have because he deserves it.

He deserves the goddamn _world_.

It’s the tenth time, because Steve keeps track. He’s expecting a cake, probably, because Bucky’s been on a kick with them of late—he bakes predictably when Steve has to leave, but then bakes for the community, and sometimes just for them, in the times between, too—but what he gets…

What Steve _gets_ is such a visceral blow to the chest that’s devastating and impossible and beautiful beyond measure, all at once, as soon as he lifts the flap of the doorway.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Sarah Rogers was known through their building, hell, around the whole block for her soda bread. Brought from home, learned from the craggy-but-so-strong hands of her dear _móraí_ : it was something else.

Steve tried like hell but never learned how to make it just right.

He’d assumed that delicacy, that little piece of home and safety and love, died with his mother.

And yet. Here he stands, breathing in, and feeling, _feeling_ —

“Buck,” he breathes, and Bucky had to have known he was there, but he turns on the balls of his feet as if it’s a surprise, though that’s all he feigns of it. He knows the looks on Steve’s face.

“It’s not,” Bucky shrugs; “I mean, it’d be a piss-poor attempt anyway, plus I probably picked shit substitutions.” He wipes his hands on an apron Steve didn’t know Bucky even had; for all that he’s been at the absurdly-simple-looking-but-unthinkably-advanced oven, Steve’s never seen him in it.

“Like the berries,” Bucky forges on; “they’re awesome, but they’re probably a bad replacement? Different flavor entirely, but they’re native only here. they grow symbiotically, or something, with the vibranium in the soil,” and Bucky’s rambling, doesn’t look at Steve as he fusses with the loaf sitting on a speckled grey plate.

“Can’t even pronounce what they’re called,” Bucky comments idly with a huff; “just call them the good berries and people take pity on me because I amuse them.”

“Can’t?” Steve forces past the lump in his throat, placing him in a real chokehold when taken together with the way his heart’s pounding in his neck. Bucky could know any language—and knows a hell of a lot already—without much trouble or training. That’s what the serum does.

“I don’t want,” Bucky breathes in deep. “I don’t know how, exactly, to make it not just happen. But when it does that, it’s almost,” he frowns, but the ache that expression always brings to Steve’s chest is a little less, just now, because it’s more contemplative than it is sad, or suffering:

“It’s robotic,” Bucky looks up, those eyes _anything_ but: “It doesn’t feel authentic. And I owe these people so much, I owe them,” he shakes his head, and laughs humorously, passing a hand over his face:

“ _Fuck_ —”

And that tone, that voice: _that_ sounds too close to suffering, to sadness; that brings more than just an ache to Steve’s chest and he steps forward without a single thought, innate in his bones:

“Buck, I—”

“No,” and Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, a small little smile, a bit melancholic but real, and it’s like a soft caress against the pain in Steve’s ribs; just enough.

“I just mean,” Bucky starts again. “They saved me from living a life with half a soul, of _being_ , or at least fucking _fearing_ the…” he shakes his head; the words don’t need speaking. 

“The _inhuman_ way that _they_ made me think and act and feel. Process information and engage the world, and I,” he exhales slow; “I owe the people _here_ for saving me from living and dying that exact same way, because I’m _not_ that,” and Steve feels such a thrill, such pride and fucking _bliss_ At the certitude, the conviction in Bucky’s voice around those words. 

“And I have skills left over, ways of thinking that make things automatic but sometimes, they do that at the expense of _meaning_ anything, and I,” he screws up his face again, the frown back but again: thinking, more than hurting. 

“I feel like I owe them to put in the effort, and make _sure_ I get the meaning from it and honor all of it like it deserves,” Bucky finally settles on in explanation, and then his lips curl: _real_.

“And maybe offer up a little joy, of watching the weird white dude—”

“White _Wolf_ ,” Steve interrupts; can’t keep the smile from his own face, and Bucky rolls his eyes—loudly—before he continues.

“I owe them the opportunity to watch me fumble and have a fucking terrible accent and accidentally call a basket a boner,” Bucky shrugs, eyeing the loaf and apparently gauging it properly cooled as he goes to grab a knife.

“Shut the fuck up,” he brandishes said knife at Steve preemptively, an empty threat, before Steve’s open mouth can do anything to mock him because _oh my god_ , that is a story Bucky should _not_ have accidentally let slip the existence of. Bucky scowls, exaggerated, as he divvies up the bread.

“I am sorry,” Steve says, not even knowing the words were in his chest, in his throat to speak until it’s done: “for bringing it up, the first part,” Steve starts to stumble; the guilt of bringing up the Winter Soldier, the fine line that’s still something they have to learn to negotiate and tread carefully through in the process, is something that’s probably more of a concern for Steve than for Bucky but.

Well.

“I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course I don’t _want_ to,” Bucky says, but it’s a statement—powerful, but no heat, no accusation and very little, if any, anger to it. Simply fact. 

“I’ll never _want_ to, I don’t think,” Bucky says, chewing his lip and for a moment he looks sixteen again. 

“But I’ve got to, I’ll have to,” Bucky nods to himself, affirming; “and I want to be open, I don’t want to hurt anyone by saying,” he swallows hard, closes his eyes and breathes deep, regroups before the open again.

“I don’t want to hurt _you_ with the truth, but I don’t want to lie to you, even by omission,” Bucky says, and it’s still tight in Steve’s throat but more—so much _more_ —it is warm.

 _Everywhere_.

“So don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, and plates bread for them both.

“Buck,” Steve starts, but then Bucky’s pushing him into a chair.

“I believe I told you to shut the fuck up, Rogers,” Bucky says, simple, and Steve’s still overcome by the touch of Bucky’s hand on his shoulder, and the scent—ingredients changed or no—of his _mother_ in the room where his home is, because Bucky’s there, and the fact is self-explanatory. 

“So _do_ that, and eat your goddamn bread.”

______________________________

Steve’s tired. He’s not sure if it’s the mission, or if it’s the increased sense of being exhausted by _not being with Bucky_ ; but he’s tired.

That’s the main thing.

Watching Bucky’s smile spread wide when he catches sight of Steve across the tall grass—maybe needs trimmed, Steve should ask if it’s the sort that should grow big or not; he will, because he’s not leaving any time soon unless the fucking sky is literally falling and Bucky’s at risk from the fallout—but Bucky’s smile?

Bucky’s smile takes the weight of the world off Steve’s shoulder. Bucky’s smile makes Steve feel automatically light.

“Got something for you,” and Steve tries to resist the feeling of _god, yes, please, right_ of Bucky's arms around him in a welcome-back embrace; the feeling of Bucky’s breath near Steve’s ear.

“Cookies,” Steve guesses, but he’s in the dark. He was gone longer than planned, and Bucky'd been doing all sorts of things in the kitchen before he did leave, so Steve doesn’t have much to work from. But then he sees the peels. 

So many peels.

Which seems self-explanatory; they’d both, in their time, been deeply disappointed, almost heartbroken, about how bananas tasted _different_ —more because of what it says about where and when they were, _are_ ; just that tiny thing, that _one extra thing_ that meant they were so very, very far from what they knew, from where they’d been and who they’d been there.

But Bucky’s tried a few times to make the bananas-of-the- _now_ as delicious as he can make them, and he’s succeeded more than once; more often than he hasn’t, by far.

If he’s _got something_ for Steve? He must have succeeded _spectacularly_.

But before Steve can seek out the fruits of Bucky’s labor, he’d got the curve of one of the plain fruits pressed at his lips and Steve tries very hard to tame the wild tumult of his heart at the vision of it, the things it shoots through Steve’s veins with pure and unmitigated _want_ : it’s Pavlovian, from there, that Steve opens his mouth.

It takes him a moment to realise that, once again, at Bucky’s hands, he’s taken back to where he, where _they_ , came from.

He hasn’t tasted a proper _banana_ in decades, nearer to a century. Not until this moment.

Literally, from Bucky’s hands.

“There was a War Dog placed in Honduras during the War,” Bucky starts to explain with a smile, presumably in response to whatever unfathomable feelings are becoming clear on Steve’s face; “well, our war. Our _first_ war?” Bucky shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”

Steve desperately wants to kiss him, at that. Steve always wants, somewhere in his body, in his heart, to kiss Bucky but in _this very moment_ , it’s almost unbearable. Almost too much to deny.

He locks it down, hard, but it’s a fucking _feat_.

“But this guy, he was really into this stuff, like an amateur conservationist,” Bucky shrugs, but there’s an underucrrent of almost childlike giddness that makes Steve’s heart race for different reasons, for a similar giddy joy; “or a botanist, or an archivist, or maybe all of it, who the fuck knows,” Bucky laughs a little, small and soft and perfect.

“But he brought back as many specimens as he could from everywhere they ever sent him,” Bucky says, and gestures behind him, and there are muffins, there are cakes, there are parfaits, maybe, and yes, there are _cookies_ but there are also no small amount of bunches, still-peeled, of bananas. Real, delicious samples of what used to be.

Again: _fuck_ , but Steve wants to sample that impossible taste from Bucky's lips—to things, one infinitely more precious than the other, that Steve had believe lost forever, and feels more complete for having been proven wrong.

“Pretty sure the only surviving plants are here,” Bucky says, and there’s a look in his eyes—eyes that don’t meet Steve's but don’t have to because Steve can _see_ it; Bucky’s feeling something like the same.

Wonder. Pure, really, and for the first time—maybe foolishly, but fuck it—for the _first time_ , the kind that he trusts without question.

Maybe Steve can trust the pull in his chest without question in this singular moment, this impossible stretch of heartbeats too fast but so fitting: needing to fill this space with as much as they can, as hard and as true and as wide as the world can stand.

He reaches for Bucky’s hand without thinking about it; Bucky’s fingers seem to lace through his own in the exactly same way.

Bucky snorts a little, but doesn’t stop gazing a little bit into the middle distance. Steve allows himself enough daring to put pressure, to squeeze Bucky’s hand in his just a little, just so.

“You only like me for my cooking,” Bucky says, but it’s so soft: almost delicate.

“First,” Steve says, soft more on his part because of the thumping in his throat making it impossible to be anything else: “I think this is baking, strictly speaking, more than cooking.”

Bucky pinches Steve’s side, where Steve used to be ticklish when they were little, and Bucky remembered. Bucky _remembers_ , and no one else could ever have known and Steve’s still a little sensitive to it. Steve still jumps, and Bucky laughs, and Steve’s whole heart bursts wide open so that everything he is spills through his body and maybe, just maybe the point of contact between their hands means it spills through Bucky’s body too like it’s meant to.

Who else is it for, really.

“Second,” Steve swallows, because he will not let this moment pass, he will not try to reel that feeling, that sunburst of emotion, in. 

“It is not _only_ your cooking, it is partially _influenced_ by your cooking. Which is different.”

Bucky grins, looking down at their hands now where Steve was already staring, already studying before he takes in a deep breath.

“And,” Steve says, so proud that his voice doesn’t shake; “given everything else about you, says a fuckton about how far you’ve come with this,” he inclines his head to the spread waiting around them, the warmth and the sweetness in the air that is nothing, _nothing_ compared the the scent of _Bucky_ , so goddamn close.

“Steven Grant, the king of the backhanded-compliment,” Bucky snarks, but it’s so fond; _so_ fond. “If only the world knew it.”

Steve smiles, and if his heart hadn’t already bust it would now, so his nerves start fraying instead:

“And third,” Steve nearly chokes, and he doesn’t realize except in the periphery how hard he’s clutching Bucky’s hand now, how it’d hurt anyone else but Bucky, _Bucky_ can take it.

“I do not only _like_ you, _for_ anything,” Steve whispers, and looks up through his lashes. Bucky’s not looking at their hands anymore. He’s staring at Steve straight on, soul in those eyes as it was when they were young, and breathtaking now to witness it brought back to life the same when Steve breathes:

“I _love_ you.”

And Bucky blinks, stares for a beat and a half before he leans in, and kisses Steve’s waiting mouth, holds their entwined hands between their chests so that he doesn’t have to let go and Steve feels Bucky’s own pounding, rejoicing pulse as an afterthought for it, and Bucky, god.

Steve’s spent a lifetime thinking about this, envisioning it, thinking about the feeling and the taste and he was an absolute _fool_ to think anything he could dream up would ever come close.

“That was almost tragically cliched,” Bucky finally says, words so close to Steve’s mouth that Steve breathes them in when he gasps; feels Bucky’s grin when he pushes on: 

“Which, as it happens,” and Bucky leans in just a hair for the shortest, sweetest of pecks: “is one of the things that _partially_ influences all the reasons I love _you_ , so,” Bucky smirks, and his free hands comes to cup Steve’s cheek.

“Seems that works out pretty well.”

And Steve can’t help it, won’t even help it or resist it again: he leans in and devours Bucky’s lips like the lifeblood, like the air-to-breathe that he is, and has always been.

______________________________

“Farm to table,” Bucky announces, as Steve settles at the table for his celebratory homecoming treat: “locally sourced.”

“Is that,” Steve says, trying to be mostly serious about it and not getting distracted by _how good_ the tarte in Bucky’s hands looks, to say nothing of the man attached to the hand; “not true of just about everything we eat?”

“Wakanda imports stuff,” Bucky says dismissively; “had to keep the whole _poor farming nation_ ruse up, for one,” and then he grins, a little wickedly. 

“And more recently, with the cat out of the bag, Shuri likes to buy overpriced loungewear for her brother and browbeat him into wearing it for TikTok videos.”

Steve snorts inelegantly, loud and unashamed enough to draw a wide grin to Bucky’s lips, an unbearably beautiful softness to his eyes.

“Who even sees them?” Steve asks, because he knows damn well Shuri isn’t uploading those to any sort of public version of the web.

“Shuri takes pleasure in such things for their own sake,” Bucky says, tone intentionally set to be a poor imitation of the princess; “but the Dora really are the benefactors who enjoy it all the most.”

Steve raises a brow; he’s surprised as much as he is _absolutely not at all surprised_ because the more he’s gotten to know the most elite warriors he’s ever encountered, he’s learned they know playful ruthlessness as much as they know ruthlessness in battle, and their humor is more wry than any Steve’s ever seen.

“They showed me before Shuri did,” Bucky says conspiratorially, nipping at Steve’s earlobe as he slides Steve a helping of the berry tarte; “don’t tell anyone.”

Steve mimes locking his lips with wide eyes and Bucky cackles at just how much of a _lie_ that innocence is, and Steve just relishes the warmth that drawing that reaction brings, every single time.

“But I meant,” Bucky goes back to the original point as he settles in front of his tarte in kind: “ _really_ farm to table,” he gestures with a fork; “ _our_ farm.”

Steve studies the components of the confection before him: the crust is definitely from the market, or else, the ingredients are—it’s handmade, and Steve’s mouth waters for it because Bucky’s just...gotten really good at baking. 

Really good.

The berries—Steve recognizes most of them, which Bucky’s learned-with- _meaning_ how to pronounce flawlessly, beyond ‘the good berry’—Steve knows they don’t grow in their modest patch of produce, but when he looks up Bucky cocks his head behind Steve’s shoulder where a collection of pots with small berry plants, all still laden with fruit despite the feast topping their dessert, are lined up on the window sill.

“Buhle helped me get these,” and that’s saying something—Buhle is well-known for being _very_ protective of her garden; “they need a bit more time before we transplant them to the garden, but we think they’ll do well behind the house,” Bucky says, matter-of-fact, and the certitude, the planning, the clear assertion that this is...long term. Permanent? 

Steve feels so warm for it; Steve feels like the world wants him in it, like he could belong in it and not have to fight the sensation that it was just trying to be rid of him, a bad penny continuing to show up. Steve feels like he belongs, in that moment. 

Because Bucky wants him, wants _Steve_ in _his_ life, in _his_ world.

Steve belongs with Bucky; _to_ Bucky.

Shit, but it’s a heady feeling.

“And the cream,” Bucky's talking again, but his face—it takes Steve a second to clock it; his face is too nonchalant. _Too_ blank, almost. “That is largely indebted to your bestie.”

Steve’s eyes narrow.

“No.”

“You love her.”

That’s not a _lie_ exactly, but—

“I can’t believe you named her that.” 

Steve can _absolutely_ believe Bucky named his rehab goat—because _we don’t own goats, Steve, we make sure they’re fed while they’re injured or sick, or, in some instances, in time out_, but often times, when Bucky reminds him of that fact, Steve gets stuck on the _we_ and just melts into it.

But point is: Steve _can_ , absolutely, believe that Bucky named the troublemaking female goat _Stevie_. Because _of course he did_

“She didn’t have a name when she came here!” Bucky protests, like he always does; “She was just a baby,” and he smiles a little wistfully; “everyone needs a name.”

And Steve aches for the reason Bucky’s so committed to that fact; Steve soars for the way he can say it because he’ll never have to hurt for such a thing ever, ever again.

“And she was a stubborn punk without any sense of self-preservation, literally from the womb,” Bucky defends himself, and frankly, Steve doesn’t have a fucking leg to stand on in the argument and never does; he just loves the way it happens, the look on Bucky’s face and the glint in his eyes: “so, what the hell else was I gonna name her?”

Steve shakes his head and grins, and leans in to steal the half-forgotten bite of creme-tarte waiting on Bucky’s spoon.

God, but he is so fucking in love; he knew it, always, but acting on it is something else entirely. Something...beautiful, that makes his heartbeat feels entirely different in his chest.

Bucky frowns, kisses him apparently to taste the sweetness from his tongue, before he steals Steve’s plate and digs in shamelessly.

So, _so_ in love.

____________________________________________________________

All said, for what was never _said_ about Bucky baking when Steve was away—Steve thinks it was a little nerves, distraction, but it was more about welcoming Steve, taking care of him, letting him know he was missed and now, he was _home_ ; for Steve, though?

It’s absolutely nerves. It’s nerves for the way that whenever Bucky goes out with Sam and the rest of the team, now that they spend more time in New York, now that Steve’s stepped out of the limelight—in part because of the government deal to ensure he wasn’t thrown in prison, but likewise the deal he pushed to keep Bucky _safe_ ; when Bucky goes out, goes back to watching Captain America’s back? The baking thing is absolutely about the way his heart doesn’t stop shaking until Bucky walks back through their door, whole.

And while Steve’s not _bad_ at baking, Bucky was always more concerned with taste. Which is important to Steve insomuch that what he makes is edible, but Steve’s focus lies more with _presentation_.

Steve makes it art, because art keeps his hands steady. Art, he can lose himself in, until Bucky…

Until _Bucky_ —

Bucky’s arms snake around him; he smells of smoke and gun oil and he’s still in his tac gear and Steve breathes him in, is able to fucking breathe at _all_ again because Bucky knows to come to Steve first; Bucky does that for _him_.

Steve nuzzles into Bucky’s cheek as he hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulders, inspecting Steve’s work; admiring, Steve can tell, which makes him flush and bring Bucky’s knuckles to his lips.

“Is that—”

“It’s a Van Gogh batch,” Steve nods, and simultaneously leans into Bucky’s heat and pulls Bucky closer around him: safe, safe _safe_ ; the blues and yellows and oranges are bright against the shortbread squares he was decorating, trying to let the staccato of his pulse push forward his progress, though now that he realizes how many he’s finished he understands why JARVIS—who he’d spent much time cursing the fact that he’d allowed Tony to install the AI in their Brooklyn apartment—had asked Steve if he was _quite alright, even by your enhanced standards your vitals are—_ , well.

Steve was maybe harsh on JARVIS, given the evidence.

“You got home early,” thank _god_ ; “I had others planned.”

Bucky holds him a little tighter, hearing everything Steve doesn’t say.

“Shower with me?” Bucky asks, innocent and simple and commonplace even as they both know it won’t be, never _is_ wholly innocent when they bathe together.

And Bucky’s hair is damp and Steve’s skin is flushed and when Bucky’s left hand drags against Steve’s lower lip as he feeds him a crumbly corner of _Sunflowers_ , Bucky’s thumbprint melting the icing in whirls and making a masterpiece more beautiful.

“Sap,” Bucky whispers, and Steve was apparently speaking out loud and he flushes for it but doesn’t mind, really, because Bucky kisses him so deep Steve feels consumed, delicious, desired.

The cookies are gonna get stale, but fuck if he cares at all.

______________________________

It was a milk run.

A goddamn _milk run_.

Bucky’s been gone for nine days—and five hours and thirteen minutes and seven, eight, nine seconds—and he’s been dark for the last half of it. They all have. Steve begged, fucking _begged_ Tony to try to find them, to confirm...something— _something_. Hope, or, or, the unthinka—

Steve can’t fucking breathe when he thinks about it. Which means he can’t fucking _breathe_ because all he can _do_ is think about it.

He asks, but in his former-Captain-America-voice so it’s more a demand—he _asks_ JARVIS to shut the fuck up about his vital signs being absolutely haywire for it, tells him to let someone know if he passes out without a fucking pulse, maybe.

 _Maybe_.

JARVIS doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he also doesn’t bother Steve again about the way his heart is threatening to tear apart every single moment because he’s afraid, he is so goddamn afraid and he wonders if this was how Bucky ever felt when they were kids, when Steve was sick—Bucky’d told him he loved then, too, but Steve can’t imagine it was like how Steve felt, how Steve feels.

Steve’s staring at nothing, taking in far too little oxygen—if not for the serum then he’d be unconscious—when there are hands on his cheeks.

“Steve,” and that voice, that voice bring him back in an instant, a gasp, a kick of his heart in his chest so hard it hurts but Steve’s hands dart out to grab Bucky, to run hands over him to make sure he’s real, to make sure he’s in one piece.

“Stevie, baby,” Bucky murmurs, running his lips over Steve’s skin like he knows Steve craves, Steve needs. “It’s okay, we’re okay, I’m sorry we lost comms, I’m—”

Steve doesn’t let him finish or go on, because he surges up and seals their lips and breathes in through Bucky’s lungs because that is proof, that is _proof_ and Bucky’s hand is on Steve’s neck holding him close, feeling his pulse settle singularly for the fact of Bucky himself and kissing deeper for it, slower but everywhere, _everywhere_ and Steve feels maybe he wasn’t real in the space of the days he couldn’t be sure Bucky was still alive in this world, when he couldn’t be _sure_ and now he’s waking up again.

He cranes his neck back and fits Bucky underneath it and holds him so fucking tight, like if Steve tries hard enough he can take Bucky into his body where he’ll be safe, where Steve’s selfish needs will also know that Bucky is here, here, _still here_.

Bucky’s been kissing back and forth against Steve’s collarbone for god knows how long before he says: “You gotta eat, Stevie,” because Bucky knows he hasn’t. He doesn’t try to leave Steve, but lifts him up and nearly carries him, folds their hands unshakably so that as Bucky rifles through the fridge they never lose contact. They stay.

Bucky grabs for one of the things Steve _did_ manage to make to try and control his nerves before they lost communication with the team and his world spiralled into darkness and ground to a halt all at once. Bucky takes it out, eyeing it carefully.

“It is,” Steve says, voice gravelly; “a Jackson Pollock sponge cake, I,” Steve’s voice catches, but he swallows once, twice, so many times until he thinks he can make words come; he grasps closer to Bucky, leans into him more deeply and that helps more.

“I didn’t want to ruin the springiness but I,” Steve studies the splattering, the unevenness that was intentional and absolutely necessary beyond intention: heavy, but not too heavy because when he made this particular cake he still cared, he still, “I was—”

Steve takes a shaky breath; Bucky rearranges them close, and kisses his brow.

“You couldn’t check in.”

Bucky just breathes against Steve’s hair, and tightens his hold.

“I,” Steve tries to explain, though he doesn’t need to: not for Bucky. Not to Bucky. “I…”

He doesn’t need to explain to Bucky, but somehow he feels like he needs to explain for himself.

“I don’t do good,” Steve says; the obvious, but the truth: an admission, a full recognition, and acceptance of what it means to have a weakness that’s so rooted in his heart, will be until the day he dies, even if it’s what kills him: recognizing that, and holding it close with both hands.

“I don’t do good with that.”

“I know,” Bucky whispers, and buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, and it speaks words in the gesture— _me too, Stevie_ , and that’s right. That’s okay.

They’re okay, now.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna do good with that, Buck,” Steve whispers, like maybe it’s a deal breaker when there’s no such thing between them.

“I know that too,” Bucky says, simply, and Steve feels another line of tension just drop from him, and the space gives him extra room to sink into Bucky’s arms. 

“That’s okay, I think,” Bucky muses against Steve’s skin, lips a little rough but wet and warm. “Some things we’re just never gonna get over, Stevie. So we have to get through ‘em, and learn to do better and be safer, both of us,” he squeezes Steve’s hand; it’s not meant to shame him, or make him feel guilt, and somehow it works, it doesn’t stir up either: they both have things to work on. They both have love that’s so big it makes them hurt more than any living being can hold without shattering.

But it’s also so big that it makes Steve feel he can fly, and if all those pieces can fly, what does it matter if he breaks sometimes? What does it matter if he breaks when Bucky puts him together, and Steve does the same when it’s Bucky in pieces, just the same?

“We do that until we get as good as we can,” Bucky breathes, Steve’s palm lifted up to his chest so he can kiss Steve’s fingertips. “And that’s not the worst place to end up.”

It isn’t. Good god, it’s not the worst anything. It’s the best thing in the world, because they’re together in it. 

“You wanna eat it?”

It takes Steve a second to recognise that Bucky’s still holding his color-splattered cake. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know—there’s still a weight too heavy on his shoulders, on his heart.

“Wanna sit in my lap while I eat it,” Bucky reads the truth in Steve’s body, his pulse and eyes and his everything because Steve’s an open book to him, was when he tried to hide and hasn’t tried to hide for a very long time, now, anyway. “And I’ll share every couple bites with you like the extremely magnanimous boyfriend I am?”

Steve laughs, not quite wet but a little unsteady, and lets Bucky lead him to their bedroom, cake in one hand and Steve in the other and he’s going to eat from Bucky’s fingertips and know, Steve’s going to know that Bucky is warm and safe and…

And it’s going to be okay. They’ll learn this better, side by side.

Steve can do that.

______________________________

Steve’s doing the dishes from his latest round of making Bucky welcome-home-I-was-worried-sick baking; cupcakes, these past few missions, and playful with it. He makes them themes after their last streaming series—even if they only manage an episode or two before they give up on it. Bucky’s scrunched up face in distaste at reminders of shows he disapproves is adorable.

But Steve’s been scrubbing the cake pan for about ten minutes now, having left Bucky with a plate full of _Say Yes to the Dress_ themed cakes even when Bucky’d taken a break and moved on to check some new suggested release Steve can’t remember the name of.

Sticking with _this_ theme, right now, is kind of important.

Steve’s just maybe a little bit...going to scrub the coating off the metal, here, if Bucky doesn’t take a bite of the right cupcake in the next five sec—

“Steve?”

Steve’s hands slip, splashing water.

“Yeah?” he calls back, voice carefully steady. But in truth, now that it’s happening, he doesn’t have to try. He’s…

This isn’t something uncertain. This isn’t his nerves a mess. This isn’t life on the line for the sake of loss.

This is their future, like it was always meant to be. And Steve smiles to himself for it, chest full and warm and lips curving upward against his will to stop as he hears Bucky get up from the sofa and walk into the kitchen.

“This is,” Bucky starts, voice bewildered and, when Steve puts down the pan and turns, his expression is pulled down to match.

“This is not fondant.” Bucky stares at the gunmetal circlet that, no.

“No.”

It is not fondant. At all.

“This is metal.”

Steve tilts his head, considering Bucky carefully and moving to lean against the countertop and cross his arms casually as he observes Bucky’s features, every quirk and careful twitch as realization comes to dawn. He doesn’t want to miss a moment.

His blood is pumping with more anticipation than it’s ever done before, and it’s dizzying, it’s exhilarating. 

It’s the best thing Steve’s ever felt.

“Yep.”

“This is _vibranium_ ,” Bucky says, eyes getting really fucking wide and _really_ fucking blue.

“Wanted to ask your family’s blessing,” Steve shrugs; he’d been the one on a mission this time, and Bucky’d baked for _him_ again—he’d asked Shuri for a design that could hold to Bucky’s left ring finger, which she’d happily and deftly not only obliged but exceeded any possible expectation, but he’d also asked everyone who loved Bucky in Wakanda, some of whom loved them both, not for permission, because Bucky belongs to himself, but for...validation, maybe. Partly because he was raised for it, but also because he needed to know, from people who valued Bucky, who loved Bucky only second to Steve’s own love, that Steve was worthy of him. Steve wouldn’t have asked, much as he wanted, if the people who shared parts of Bucky’s heart in so very many different ways didn’t think Steve measured up.

Because Bucky deserves the best of all things, and as much happiness as the world can hold.

“Two birds,” Steve shrugs, as if it was nothing, when this, _they_ , are everything. 

“Three,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the not-fondant ring between his fingertips, then looks up at Steve. “You stopped upstate,” and Steve’s surprised that Bucky knew it, but then not surprised at all; it’s where Bucky's ma and dad are buried. “And in Indiana,” where Becca was laid to rest.

He needed the blessings of everyone who held Bucky’s heart, before he asked to hold it himself, forever.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes, and Steve tests his legs—they’re steady, so he crosses to Bucky and slides hands up his arms until he’s cradling his face and looking straight in his eyes and reading everything there: joy and loss, fear and worry and all the heaviness and weight and comfort and arms-around-you-and-steadiness-to-lean-against that every worthwhile thing in this world demands; Steve reads a future he used to dream of and known he’d never survive to see even if it were possible; a future he’d lost because he was insufficient, because he failed, because love wasn’t enough until it was, suddenly, and Steve was given a fucking miracle even if he deserved nothing of the sort but he wanted, god, he’d wanted from the very start and it only got deeper, it only drew stronger and somehow there’s another miracle Steve gets in this world because those things?

Those things are in Bucky’s eyes too, looking at him with a sheen in that gaze that makes Steve feel like the world is ending, but only to begin so much better.

Steve means to sink to one knee, or maybe just fold Bucky's hand around the ring before Steve slips it on, with Bucky’s permission, his answer to a question Steve feels like he’s always wanted to ask, always been on the _brink_ of asking like his tongue was only shaped to hold it in and keep it safe—he means to.

But then Bucky's handing him the ring, and holding out his left hand expectantly, grabbing the back of Steve’s neck with his right and kissing him hard enough to bruise and saccharine-laced with lingering icing before he leans back and growls, a little wet around the edges: 

“I could have broken a fucking tooth, asshole.”

And Steve laughs, deep in his belly and full of everything his heart’s ever been or held or known, and this: yeah.

The world is going to be so much _better_.


End file.
